Music, Movies, Metal
by ThePhotojournalistTheShogun
Summary: Metal Black is the combined result of 12-cylinder engines, speeding, a childhood vendetta, and a corporate desire for an unusual character. Hey, he accepted the offer, didn't he? His life isn't the most normal, but he has friends he can rely on. If you want to try your hand at drawing the character based on the provided profile, go for it. Rated T because swearing, and stuff. Yeah.
1. Metal Black Profile

Name: Metal Black

Species: Metal Sonic

Age: 25

Height: 3'3"

Weight: Somewhere around 80 pounds

Color: Jet Black

Eye Color: Blue with a hint of gray

Outfit: Green T-Shirt, Wrangler jeans (light blue), Foster Grant sunglasses (Agent Smith/Matix-ish style), Stainless steel cross on military chain, Tan Brahma work boots, Stainless steel divers watch, Black stocking cap

Occupation: Video game character, Photojournalist

Favorite Movie: The Boondock Saints

Favorite Christmas Movie: Die Hard

Favorite Actor: Jason Statham

Favorite Song: Sad But True by Metallica

Favorite Christmas Song: The Twelve Pains of Christmas

Favorite Solo Artist: Eminem

Favorite Band: Shinedown

Favorite Video Game: Postal 2

Favorite TV Show: World's Dumbest

Favorite Cartoon: Tom and Jerry

Favorite Book: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson

Favorite Author: Stephen King

Favorite Comedian: Louis C.K.

Favorite Website: YouTube

Favorite Holiday: Christmas

Favorite Food: Calamari

Favorite Drink: Diet Coke

Favorite Liquor: Chivas Regal 12-Year Scotch

Favorite Restaurant: Olive Garden

Favorite Fast Food Joint: McDonalds

Favorite Bar: Cheers

Best Friend: Sonic the Hedgehog

Quotes: "Does it look like I know?" "Man, fuck off." "FUCKIN' BLOW ME!" "I'd kill for a bottle of Stoli right now." "You can take your 'charming accent' and shove it up your ass." "I'm going to rip that smug moustache off and shove it so far up your fat ass you'll need to open your fat fucking face to shave." "I'm having second thoughts." "HA!" "You're a retard, you know that?" "Don't be a dick." "I. Don't. Even. Want. to. Fucking. Know." "The fuck are you doing?" "NO, DON'T DO THAT, YOU NASTY-ASS FUCK!" "Touch me again and I'll punt you into next week." "Do that shit one more FUCKING time and I will throw you off the roof." "You asshole." "Why me?" "This is a bad plan. Just saying." "I'll bet Postal Dude never had these problems with Vince Desi." "You suck." "Don't be an ass." "Have you been smoking crack?" "ARE YOU HIGH RIGHT NOW?" "BEEN DRINKIN' AGAIN, HAVE YA?" "I need a drink, a smoke, and a bullet to the head." "How did I get roped into this mess again?" "Yeah, sure." "Whatever." "Does it look like I give two fucks?" "Fuck me..." "FUCK!" "Ah, tits." "Nice knockers." "Hit me again, see what happens." "We've established this." "I hate you so very much right now." "Got a present for ya!" "Yo, fuckhead, knock knock!"


	2. Prologue or How I ended up in this mess

Prologue or How I ended up in this line of employment

It was a bright and sunny saturday afternoon in Las Vegas. I had been in town almost a week covering the World Series of Poker Main Event. If it's not obvious, I was, and still am, a photojournalist by trade. Freelance. Had covered 4 San Diego Comic Cons, 3 E3 expos, 1 Minecon, 5 Auto shows, a handful of local Comic Cons, a DUB custom car show in Boston, did a brief assignment for the Mint 400. Wore my Raoul Duke glasses for that one. So, there I was, staying in a suite at the RIO, covering the tournament. Had my camera, lenses, and a reporter on my right hand side. Never really spoke much. I had wrangled a rented Bentley Continental GTC from Poker Monthly, who had hired me for the job. Everything was smooth sailing.

Until the...accident. I had just finished day 5 of the tournament, getting some nice photos and making friends. I decided to go out to a show. The valet brought the Bentley around, a 12-cylinder, dark red speed demon with the top down. I decided to be a little bit troublesome for the LVPD, and hauled ass at over 180mph on the Las Vegas Strip. Only 1 problem. An old associate of mine whom I shall refer to as "The Ginger" had gotten into town and stolen a Mercedes-Benz CL600. He was going roughly the same speed I was. Didn't see the silver German droptop until it was too late. The Ginger died instantly. Paralyzed from the chest down myself, I had one of four options. Die, Risk Death with a highly unstable surgery, be wheelchair bound for the rest of my life, or take Sega up on their offer. What offer? Well, the inspiration had come from CHAPPiE, and they needed a new character who could be related to. Relating to someone like Sonic? HA! They wanted a rogue Metal Sonic for a reboot. A Metal Sonic with good intentions and a no-holds-barred vengance plan for Eggman. Seems like a solid deal.

There's always a catch to these things. First, I'd be tied down to Irvine, California for, well, eternity. Second, I'd have no choice but to sever all ties. Third, I'd be screwed if Sega went tits up. Well, that second one meant about as much to me as it meant to the homeless guy on Ass Lane. Jack shit. I had severed ties long ago. Why? I ain't telling you. The third one was much the same. The first one really only annoyed me. I had always been one to move freely. Well, what can you do?

I accepted.

The whole process was painless, but felt...unusual. Felt like I was getting pleasured by the gayest palm tree ever. But, it was quick, at least. When I first woke up a robot, I heard a certain cobalt blue smartass say, "Generic color, much?" I liked the color black. It fit my new name.

And with that, the life of "Metal Black" had begun.

Friends call me "Metal".


	3. Fail and Laughing in Irvine, California

Chapter 1: Fail and Laughing in Irvine, California

I swear to god, I'm going to fucking kill Sonic for this. I woke up this morning, like any other, only to find a metric fuckton of whipped cream all over my goddamn room. I should point out we all have our own room inside Sega of America HQ in Irvine, CA. Mine has a flatscreen TV, a Blu-Ray player, a desk with an Alienware Gaming Desktop on it, an adjustable twin bed, a clock-radio, a minifridge with soda and booze in it, a full-size punching bag hanging from the ceiling, and posters all over the place. Patriots, Red Sox, movies, video games, etc. I have a kindle fire on the bedside table with all my books loaded onto it. It's a nice place. But, Sonic just had to be an asshole.

Found the bastard in the break room shooting the shit with John. Who's John? John Cheng, the President of the company. Needless to say, John had to get in the middle before they had to call the medics. "Metal, think about this. It's just whipped cream." he said to me. Sonic looked like he was about to piss himself. I grumbled, "Then get that little blue jackass and tell him to clean it up." Sonic was already out of the room and halfway done cleaning the mess he lfet by the time I had finished saying that. I went back to my room and ran into Sonic in the hallway. "I'm really sorry, I didn't know you'd get that angry", he said. "It's fine, just don't fuck with my room or my stuff ever again." I replied with a hint of exasperation. I opened the closet and took out my outfit for the day. I got dressed, as always, and made my way down to the break room. I wanted a cup of coffee. Badly.

With a bit of caffeine in my system, I began my day. Posted a note on the office bulletin board about someone stealing from the stash of beer and tequila I had in the break room fridge. Made it clear I'd throw whomever it was off the damn roof. Prank called Sega of Japan with a really offensive accent, pretending to be a retarded Kim Jong-Un. "Herro! I am Kim Jong-Unfuckable! I r grorious reader! I SO RONREY! I HAZ PORICE COME AND LAPE YO MUDDA!" I can be a bastard when I want to be. Hey, Japan and North Korea are Enemies, so I made a racist joke at North Korea's expense. After that, I elected to play some Postal 2. Broke my 3000 kill record, finally. By then, it was lunchtime.

Made myself a bowl of instant ramen, Sonic had chili dogs, again. Seriously, he may as well have sex with them, he loves those damn things that much. I like chili as much as the next guy, but I hate hot dogs. No idea why, I just do. So, we're in the break room, around noon on a summer afternoon, and Sonic suggests, "Let's race to Seattle and back." My response was quick and snappy "Let's just throw you into the ocean and see if you float." Sonic is my best friend, but the guy needs to slow the fuck down a little. I, instead, suggested, "How about we watch A Good Day to Die Hard and enjoy a quiet afternoon, hmm?" After that morning's incident, Sonic was more than happy to agree.


	4. DISCLAIMER

I feel like I should include a disclaimer so no one gets pissy with me later:

My humor is dark, twisted, and dirty. Don't like, fuck off.

I have a penchant for guns, cars, sexual humor, swearing, booze, and cigarettes. Religious prudes need not apply.

I base my characters, to an extent, off myself. A few key traits shared by all primary characters I create are: t-shirts, blue jeans, a stainless steel cross on a chain, and an enjoyment of The Boondock Saints.

I have a preference for characters with dark stories, shady connections, and murky pasts. Tragedy and violence laying most of the groundwork.

I enjoy making jabs at Donald Trump, Justin Bieber, and other fuckwads. Trump supporters and so-called "belibers" can fuck right the motherfucking fuck off.

I don't enjoy being sent flames. Fuck off.

Trolling will be met with implications of sleeping with said troll's mother/sister/cousin or other female relation. Bonus points if said relation died tragically, with large amounts of suffering. Yes, I would point blank state I slept with an 8-year-old troll's mother, who died last month after a long, painful battle with cancer. Don't troll me.

I don't ship. Don't fucking ask.

You want a story made? PAY UP!

I will not review your Sonadow lemon or what-have-you. Keep that shit on your own hard drive and off my web browser, you cunt.

I will not do crossovers. Too fucking complicated.

If you want to try drawing one of my characters, go for it. Just credit me for the character or I will find your sorry ass.

I can't draw for shit, don't ask.

I keep this kind of internet presence separate from my primary one. Don't try and figure out who hides behind the name. If you do, keep it to your fucking self.

I do primarily Sonic fanfictions, even though I've never played most of the games beyond trying them out at a friend's house 10 fucking years ago. If I get something wrong, don't be a fucking know-it-all and inform me WITHOUT BEING A FUCKING ASSHOLE ABOUT IT!

I'm not one to just go throwing my name around, but my home state, if you get the references, I imply all the time. If you know the injokes and references, you'll be able to figure out my homestate.

My personal information is off fucking limits. Fuck off.

If you threaten to DdoS me or some shit, I will, in fact, call the authorities and have them trace your username back through to your fucking device. Don't fuck with me.

I will post some irrelevant information about myself, like age and such, but I must insist on using a false name. Age is 100% legit, name and such are not.

Don't test my patience with being an annoying little fucker.

No "dank memes MLG blaze it" whatever the fuck will be occuring here.

I may include memes like Trollface or Me Gusta, but no, I'm not doing Mountain-Dew-Doritos-Xbox-gold-bullshit-420-smoke-weed-FNAF-wank-m8-triggered-shit-whatever the fuck. I can't stress this shit enough.

Ask about my weight again and I'll drop you like John McClane dropped Hans Gruber. Right out a fucking 30th story window.

If you leave swastikas anywhere near me, I'll kill you.

No, I won't play CS:S with you.

Don't ask for my ROBLOX username, it's a dead-ass account and I've abandoned any hope for that hellhole.

Get your ass out of my face.

Ok, that one was a joke.

But seriously, don't fuck with me, I'm not in the fucking mood.


End file.
